


you seem the type to follow the line

by green_postit



Category: Gossip Girl
Genre: Emotional Abuse, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:58:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_postit/pseuds/green_postit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sex is awful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you seem the type to follow the line

**.x//**

The sex is awful.

Humphrey on his back, palm covering his face, frown on his lips. Regret. Chuck sees everything from the corner of his eyes, snarl on his lips, venom in his voice. 

"Get out."

Humphrey drops his hand, looks up at the ceiling. He avoids Chuck.

"Get _out_."

"Whatever."

The bed dips, springs back up. The gentle slapping of bare feet on marble. The jangle of a belt, buttons scraping the floor. The click of a door closing. The walk of shame to the elevator. 

A memory already cooling on the bed sheets.

Chuck's jaw is tight, teeth grinding. 

He showers off the stink of vodka and desperation and orders an omelet that cost as much as the scholarship keeping Humphrey at St. Judes. 

He smirks as he eats Humphrey's future and washes it down with a twenty-three-year-old scotch. 

**.vii//**

Humphrey fucks like he's fighting.

Chuck slaps his hands to the bed, digs his nails in. He enjoys the struggle, the raw energy. He's not gentle, two fingers stretching, barely any lube to ease the way. Never a condom. 

He presses against Humphrey's thighs, unforgiving. Humphrey hisses, bucks up. Grabs at Chuck's hair, tugs. Chuck pushes his hand back down, snaps his hips harder. 

"You don't get to touch."

Humphrey barks out a laugh, haughty. "Only Nate, right?"

Chuck smirks. "Figured that out, did you?" He pulls out, makes Humphrey groan. He shoves his fingers inside, slick and cold, scissors as he presses against his prostate. "Wondered when you'd notice."

Humphrey's smirk is vicious, eyes grinning. He leans up, crushes their lips together, bruises, teeth, nips and bites. Chuck gnaws on his mouth, chews. Both his hands are clasped around Humphrey's face, punishment in disguise. 

He knees Humphrey's leg back, presses his cock back inside. Makes him moan. Has him clutching the bedpost as he fucks in and out, jerky movements, primitive and urgent. Necessary.

He fucks him like he's out for blood. 

**.ix//**

It all falls apart.

Nate's eyes are cruel, unforgiving. Chuck is proud of him. He doesn't make excuses. He knows he could. He knows he could fix this.

He doesn't.

"How long?"

Chuck hates Nate's theatrics. "Since the beginning," he yawns, disinterested. Bored already. "Before, probably, if you want to get technical." 

"You fucking asshole. You _knew_ about—and you still—Jesus Christ." 

"Don't act magnanimous, Nathaniel. It's not a flattering color on you."

"You knew and you still—" Nate laughs, contained hysteria. "You fucking pathetic asshole." 

"Didn't stop you from fucking me though, did it, _Nathaniel_? Or did you think things like this just happen on their own?"

Nate says nothing. He turns toward the door.

"I'm—"

"You'll be back."

The door slams shut behind him. 

**.vi//**

Nate obeys orders, has needed guidance since he was younger. 

He waited for the other kids to pick a team, for teachers to tell him his strengths, for parents to decide his future. 

Blair controlled him beautifully. She offered the guise of subservience and manipulated his perception of power. She bred him to be her ideal partner, trained him to compliment her limited faults. 

Chuck sees no reason to halt Nate's training. 

Nate's body responds to Chuck's. Sense memory. A tightened hand has Nate sliding down Chuck's stomach, has Chuck's cock parting his lips in two. Nails have Nate on his stomach, has him arching back for Chuck's touch. 

Chuck gets drunk on the sounds that Nate makes. Giddy. It's not a challenge; it's the triumph. The reward. Chuck believes in winning. Spoils to the victor. 

Nate's a pretty prize to hang on his bedpost.

**.ii//**

Nate's always been easy.

The first time he saw Nate, five years old, schoolyard, alone on the swings, chauffeur carrying his knapsack, Chuck remembers thinking _I could have that_. 

It's easy to befriend him. Both their fathers have wings with their names on shiny gold plaques. 

They eat lunch, sit together, talk about the toys they have, Disney Land, the Ninja Turtles. Nate likes Michelangelo. Chuck's always liked Shredder. 

"But you can't like the bad guy! He's bad!" 

Twelve years changes nothing.

**.iii//**

Humphrey's principles and morals embarrass Chuck. 

He's an idealist. He shuns the rich and writes poetry about being on the outs of the in crowd. He believes that money means nothing, that affluence and the ruling elite are archaic and trivial. 

He's smart, but acts like intelligence is a currency that he has sole claim over.

He hides his desire for acceptance and conformity with poetry in a corner of the cafeteria, crumpling up party invitations, shopping at thrift stores and outlet malls. 

He holds his head high, wearing the cast offs of people like Chuck. 

He's a leech. A parasite. 

Chuck can smell his own.

**.iv//**

Blair's always been a phase Nate never bothered growing out of. 

Chuck always knew it would come crashing down, always knew he'd be there to pick up the pieces.

He has Nate in his bed two months after he has Blair in the back of his limo. 

There's no struggle, no hesitance. Nate spreads out beautifully on Chuck's thousand thread count, silk sheets. 

It's an amalgamation of years of want, years of experience, years of analyzing. Years of waiting. 

Nate's hands are slippery with sweat, his skin flushed and hard in Chuck's hands. His cock curves into Chuck's hand, presses against Chuck's stomach. Chuck licks at Nate's lips, swallows his tongue, jerks him off, Nate crying into his mouth. His breath hitches, stutters, teeth digging into Chuck's shoulder, hands around his neck, nails up his back, legs around his waist.

Chuck smirks the entire time. 

**.v//**

Humphrey works at the school's library.

Chuck knows his timetable, knows that on Thursdays, Humphrey's in the basement for two hours, sorting books. 

Chuck skips history.

"You're not supposed to be here." Dan doesn't turn when Chuck approaches. 

"The feeling's mutual, believe me."

Humphrey has the decency to look mildly shocked. "I don't have time for this, Chuck. Some of us actually have work to do."

"We both know my time is more valuable than yours, Humphrey. Let's not kid ourselves."

He sighs. Appeasing. "What do you want, Chuck?"

Chuck smirks. "I'm going to give you one hundred dollars to suck my cock with that pretty mouth of yours. And you're going to do it."

Humphrey's laugh is condescending. Audacious. "How surprising. Rich and delusional."

"Someone needs to teach you your place." Chuck's voice is even.

"And that someone is you? How very kind of you, but unfortunately, I'm going to have to pass. A rain-check, perhaps?"

Chuck's smile is all steel. His dick's hard, his skin buzzing. He hasn't felt challenged like this since he was thirteen and his father refused to buy him an island near Morocco. 

He doesn't argue. He's a Bass. Bass's don't waste their breath on commoners. 

He pulls out his wallet, tugs a one hundred dollar bill from his money-clip. Takes a step toward Humphrey, places the money on the bookshelf. Pushes him to his knees. Has him unzip his pants with shame coloring his cheeks. 

Has Humphrey swallowing his cock between the fiction and nonfiction section.

**.viii//**

Chuck ends everything on a Sunday.

Nate's lounging on his bed, pants undone, shirt unbuttoned. His skin is flushed, frown on his lips, creases in his forehead. 

"This can't happen again."

Chuck's surprised Nate says it.

"I've—I haven't been honest and it's not fair." 

Chuck tips his head back, laughs. 

"What?" Nate's confused. He sounds injured, lost.

He's going to lose everything. He just doesn't know it yet.

"What?" Nate repeats, firmer.

"I've been fucking Dan."

**.i//**

It's late. Chuck's drunk, last call sees him out of the bar and into an elevator. 

He blacks out from the seventh floor until the thirty-third floor. He has cognac spilled on his shirt and pants. 

The bell for his floor politely rings. He grunts as he spills out of the elevator, hands and knees crawling to his room. He had enough foresight to leave his door open. There are pictures of him on Gossip Girl, passed out against his front door, passed out in his vomit in the hallway.

The door inches open. He drags himself across the threshold, pauses to stop the dizziness, the nausea. Voices greet him. Hushed, amused, secretive. He cracks open an eye, sees shadows dancing on his wall. 

He sees Nate on his bed, shirtless, back twitching. He's groaning, soft, intense. Fingers curl around his neck, pull him down. The sound of a zipper, elastic sliding down damp skin, Nate's voice stammering. 

The unmistakable sound of flesh in flesh, of sex. Nate curses, bites out soft praise and encouragement. 

Chuck smiles to himself. He's proud of Nate. Blair's gorgeous, pure. Ideal for his status. 

It starts with a name. It's a name repeated over and over. It's a lead weight in Chuck's stomach. 

It's not Blair.


End file.
